


Symptomatic

by snapple_jax



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Sex Pollen, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 11:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapple_jax/pseuds/snapple_jax
Summary: “What, like it’s hard?” Jonny parrots along with Elle Woods.  He side-eyes Patrick, fully prepared for the gleeful chirp about how he knew Jonny loved this movie all along.Only Pat’s turned an alarming shade of red before scurrying to the bathroom, blanket trailing behind since he couldn’t untangle himself fast enough.





	Symptomatic

**Author's Note:**

> There's a scene with Panarin that was written pre-trade and I didn't have the heart to edit it / him out.  
> Then again, with sex pollen I'm not exactly striving for realism here :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this little romp before the season starts!

**Day 1**

 

The wood flooring is still warm from the late afternoon sunshine when Jonny steps out onto the rooftop deck, toes curling and extending as his bare feet soak up the heat.  He quickly slides the glass door shut behind him, not wanting the cooler air inside to escape, especially while he was cooking.

 

Pat was supposedly making a salad, but he seemed content to watch Jon’s preparations from his perch on the counter instead.  Legs idly swinging back and forth, fingers occupied with tearing the lettuce into smaller and smaller pieces.

 

It’s not that Pat doesn’t know how to cook.  Jonny’s one of the few that knows about the index card stash of his mother’s recipes that he hides in an old green Keebler cracker tin.  Pat only brings them out when he’s feeling particularly homesick, otherwise he’s happy enough with ordering through the meal service.

 

But...it’s nice...comfortable, to have a lazy Patrick in the kitchen, so Jon doesn’t complain.  Much.

 

Jonny makes a quick detour to check on his tomatoes before continuing his way to the rows of herbs, carefully bypassing the area on the right-most corner he’s privately dubbed the “Quarantine Zone”, wherein rogue cilantro had sprung up amongst the spinach.  Jonny certainly hadn’t planted them on purpose.  The entire thing reeks of Sharpy and the timing does fit with the last time Dallas had an away game in Chicago.  Whether or not any of the other guys were accomplices remains to be seen, but Jonny’ll be damned if he lets on that he’s noticed.

 

The only other occupant in quarantine is a single pot currently housing a ghost pepper plant.  Jonny’s own bitter bitter revenge, reserved solely for Sharpy’s welcome back dinner.  Jonny’s matured.  He can play a long con.

 

It’s only once he’s bent over to collect the basil that he notices.  Nestled under the shadow of the nearby sprigs of rosemary is a delicate flower, the petals a deep red, velvety to the touch.

 

_Must be some sort of wildflower_ , he muses as he pulls the weed out.  

 

Jonny’s twirling the stem between his fingers when he re-enters the room, basil and a few leaves of thyme in hand.  Pat looks back, jerking his chin towards the pot on the upper left burner.

 

“That one’s bubbling.”

 

Jonny shakes his head, hurrying over to lower the heat.

 

“Thanks for lending a hand here, buddy,” Jon snarks over his shoulder.

 

“You can’t leave lettuce unattended,” Patrick says imperiously when Jonny turns around.

 

Jonny snorts, eyeing the salad bowl filled with lettuce pieces the size of thumbprints.

“We eating salad with spoons, now?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at Pat.

 

Pat shrugs, a smile not quite stifled dancing around his lips, before his attention is drawn to the cutting board where the herbs Jon had picked lay.  

 

“Hey, you growing some sort of edible flower?” Pat asks, fishing out the wildflower, vivid red against all the green.

 

“Whoa, no, not sure what this is so definitely not meant for consumption,” Jonny says, plucking the stem out from between Pat’s fingertips. “Meant to throw this out, but…,” he looks at Patrick thoughtfully before sticking the stem behind his left ear.

 

“Not too bad Peeks, always did look good in red,” Jonny smirks.

 

There’s a flash of a dimple as Patrick preens a bit before removing the flower, already tangled in his ridiculous hair even though it’s only been there for all of five seconds.

 

Jonny watches him pass it under his nose, the slightest flare of his nostrils as he inhales.

 

Patrick sneezes.

 

**Day 2**

 

“You okay? You look flushed,” Jonny says, eyeing Patrick’s wide grin and rosy cheeks suspiciously.  

 

The sliding doors are open, letting the cool evening air circulate amongst the team scattered throughout Jonny’s condo.  There’s a barely noticeable sheen of perspiration along Pat’s temples, the lamplight glinting off a stray droplet settling in the hollow of his throat.  Jon would’ve turned on the air conditioner, but no one else seems to be bothered.  Not even the rookies, who were full on wrestling by the entertainment console when Schmaltzy sent Vinnie careening off Rainbow Road and Hartzy felt the need to defend his honor.

 

“He’s flush?  Pretty sure that’s me,” Seabs gloats, as Jon’s roll has his scottish terrier riding one of Seabs’ railroads.  “Choo-choo motherfucker, pay up!”

 

Jonny rolls his eyes, tossing the bills towards Seabs, while Duncs looks on sullenly, having missed the past couple of turns rotting in jail.

 

Hoss’ the only one everyone trusted enough to be banker, but Jonny secretly suspects some sort of right-wing conspiracy as Kaner’s pile of Monopoly money never seems to diminish too much, regardless of how many times his top hat landed on Jonny’s Boardwalk.

 

“Hey, Temi,” Hartzy calls out with a glance at the board as he passes by, headed to the kitchen for another refill.  “Which one are you?”

 

Artemi looks up innocently from where he’d been carefully placing a hotel along Illinois Avenue.  “I am boot,” he replies.

 

This sets Kaner off into gales of laughter, Artemi beaming back at whatever inside joke the two had going.

 

Jonny looks on, perplexed, and most certainly not feeling left out _at_ _all._

 

With a nudge to his shoulder, Seabs apparently takes pity on him.  “This is what happens when you only watch fishing documentaries, Taze.”

 

Jon’s then distracted by Patrick landing on a community chest square.  Pat hands the card over to Temi to read since he’d had such fun gleefully proclaiming that Duncs must “GO TO JAIL (Go Directly to Jail)” moments before.

 

“You have won second prize in a beauty contest,” Artemi reads aloud slowly, taking his time with the pronunciation.

 

Jonny interrupts Pat’s immediate shit-eating grin to ask, “What does that mean?”

 

“Mean Kaner pretty like you think, but not _most_ pretty,” Artemi nods sagely. “Collect ten dollars.”

 

Temi’s smug smile at his chirp incites a wallop with a throw pillow from Pat and laughter from everyone else, but Jonny doesn’t miss the subtle eye contact while he said the phrase “like _you_ think”.

 

Temi meets his grin as Hossa duly passes over $10.

 

What a little shit.

 

**Day 3**

 

Pat’s skipped their gym session.

 

It’s still technically the offseason, which allows their training schedule to be a bit more flexible than the norm, but Patrick is the one who consistently jokes about Jon’s near-militant approach to training and had left last night with a jaunty salute and a promise to show up at 0900 sharp, _sir, yes sir._

 

Jonny isn’t overly concerned, as he idly shampoos and ducks his head under the shower spray, concluding that Pat must have just slept in.

 

It’s only hours later, after Jonny’s hydrated, prepared lunch, tended to his garden, and hydrated again, that his thoughts return to Pat.  His phone confirms the slight niggle of worry that’s settled in pit of his stomach, showing no missed calls or texts.

 

Jon’s “ **Hey lazy - you still coming?** ” message from this morning is still unanswered and a phone call to Pat has him listening to the robotic, nondescript voicemail greeting PR advised they all should have, just in case someone who shouldn’t managed to get their hands on their private number.

 

Jonny’s in the midst of grabbing his keys and hightailing it over to Patrick’s, when he hears a soft thud against his door, followed by the muted jangle of keys unsuccessfully scraping against the lock, not quite aligning with the keyhole.

 

There are only a couple of people with keys to Jon’s place and quick look through the peephole shows a distorted close-up of Patrick’s profile, curls askew.

 

“Hey, hey, I got it,” Jonny calls out, unlocking and swinging the door open.

 

Patrick all but falls into his arms, hands clutching around Jon’s middle, mouth pressing wetly against the collar of his t-shirt.

 

“Peeks!” Jon yelps, thrown off-balance by the sturdy width of Pat’s shoulders pushing him backwards.  “You fucker, what’s gotten into you?”

 

“Feelin’ woozy,” Pat slurs, face still smushed into Jonny’s chest.  “Head’s heavy.”

 

Jon manages to anchor his grip along Pat’s torso, holding him an arm’s width apart.  Now that Jonny’s instilled some level of personal space, he can catalogue what he sees; Pat’s eyes - dilated pupils drowning out the blue, the slight acceleration to his breathing, the heat radiating beneath an old Strength pullover.

 

Pat makes a halfhearted shooing motion. “Go on, take care of me.”

 

“Oh, that’s my job, huh?” Jonny huffs, all the while running his fingers soothingly through Pat’s hair, scratching lightly against his scalp.

 

Pat gives a gratifying little moan and looks up earnestly through his lashes, “‘course Jon, we take of each other, right?”

 

“Yeah Pat, ‘course.”

 

*

 

Jonny’s a far better nurse than he ever is at being a patient.

 

“Fussing comes naturally to you,” Pat had explained during the collarbone injury of 2015.

 

Patrick isn’t exactly a model patient himself and long recoveries take their toll on anyone’s mental health, but as Pat likes to point out, he has yet to throw a remote out of sheer frustration.

 

Thankfully, Jon suspects this to be some sort of garden variety infection or stomach bug.  If the symptoms persist, he’ll make an appointment with Dr. Terry, but otherwise he’s betting Pat’s immune system will fight it off soon enough.

 

Besides, Pat seems to be milking this for all he’s worth.  After downing a couple of Advil and drinking the bottles of water Jonny had set out, Pat’s managed to ensconce himself on Jonny’s couch, cocooned in a blanket he fished out of the linen closet.  With his feet securely tucked under one of Jonny’s thighs, the only remaining visible parts were two eyes, a nose, and a golden halo of mad scientist hair.

 

Initially, the pills seemed to be doing their job. But Jonny doesn’t miss the way Pat’s attention keeps straying from his pick of Legally Blonde streaming on the flat screen.  It’s subtle at first.  Jonny catches Pat looking his way a few times, but he chalks it up to Pat waiting to pounce the moment he shows an ounce of enjoyment since Jonny had put up a token protest over the film choice.

 

The glances continue though, to the point that Pat seems far more interested in the beer bottle gripped in Jonny’s hand, fingers lightly drumming against the neck.

 

“What, like it’s hard?” Jonny parrots along with Elle Woods.  He side-eyes Patrick, fully prepared for the gleeful chirp about how he _knew_ Jonny loved this movie all along.

 

Only Pat’s turned an alarming shade of red before scurrying to the bathroom, blanket trailing behind since he couldn’t untangle himself fast enough.

 

After Pat hurriedly ducks into the bathroom for a second time that evening, Jon offers dry toast and soup to settle his stomach instead of the stuffed zucchini he’d prepared for himself.

 

“You sure?” Jon hesitates, serving spoon held in mid-air as Pat insists on having the zucchini as well.  “May not be the best thing if it’s gonna come right back up…”

 

Pat turns a suspicious pink around the ears as he ducks his head and mumbles something to the effect that food was the least of his problems.

 

Jon is instantly reminded of rookie season, of a flushed and freshly scrubbed Patrick smacking Jonny with a wet towel as he exits their shared bathroom for the third time that day.  The droopy boneless saunter that left no doubt as to what exactly Pat had gotten up to in there.

 

Jonny is shaken out of the memory by Pat deftly swiping the spoon out of his hand with a frustrated huff and proceeding to help himself.  

 

_Jeez, snap out of it_ , he mentally scolds himself.  Hell, if Pat was jackin’ it in his bathroom for the second time in as many hours, there’s no way he’d look as tense and on edge as he currently did.

 

Jon shifts the platter closer with an apologetic smile.  “Knew you couldn’t resist my cooking.”

 

Pat tilts his chin up, grinning extra-wide around the mouthful he just spooned in.

 

It should be disgusting.

 

**Day 4**

 

Jonny wakes up with a jolt.

 

It takes him a good ten minutes to get his eyes open properly on a normal day and he won’t deny that there have been times he’s wandered into the bathroom with them still closed.  Blinking rapidly, his vision seems to be adjusting a bit faster to the darkness still blanketing his bedroom.  Either that or the solid thwack a Patrick-shaped figure delivers with one of the pillows seems to have done the job.

 

“You fucker!” a slightly manic Patrick hisses.  “I figured it out!”

 

Jonny turns toward his voice.  Pat is perched on the side of the bed, wild-eyed, fever sticky, and clutching a pillow protectively around his middle.

 

“Fucking hell, Pat,” Jonny worries, sitting up and reaching out a hand to touch his skin.  With the scowl Pat’s leveling at him, Jonny almost expects another smack with the pillow, but Pat seemingly melts into his touch, nuzzling into the contact.  “You’re burning up, Peeks.”

 

Patrick mumbles something incoherent in response.

 

“What was that?” Jon questions, smoothing the curls away from his temples.

 

“I _said,_ I figured out that this all started with your fucking Viagra flower from your damn hippie garden,” Pat repeats, glare back in full effect.

 

Jonny pauses, narrowing his eyes in concern.  “Peeks, I think you’re delirious. I’m gonna grab some more Advil and call Dr. Terry.”

 

Before he can make a move to get out of the bed, he finds himself with an unexpected naked lapful of Patrick, the pillow preserving his modesty abandoned.  

 

It’s just...it’s a lot to process, okay?  Outside of locker room showers where Jon’s eyes are firmly averted out of general respect and decency, naked Patricks are rare and only appear in Jonny’s own private fantasies.  Honestly, Jon has often wondered if Pat’s personal fashion motto was something along the lines of “to let no button go unbuttoned”.

 

“Jonny, _listen_ ,” Pat says, voice plaintive over the sudden raucous pounding of Jonny’s own heart.  “I need you.”

 

_Holy hell._ How many times has he fucking imagined that exact sentence?  Jonny squeezes his eyes shut, scrubbing a hand over his face, taking deep breaths to steady himself.  On the third exhale, he opens his eyes slowly.  The sight that greets him is the same.  Patrick, with Patrick’s stupid hair and Patrick’s Gatorade blue eyes and Patrick’s jacked shoulders and Patrick’s gorgeous, gorgeous cock.

 

“Jonny, it won’t stop.  Not since that dinner a few nights ago.  It wasn’t, ah, more than usual, at first.  But now--” Pat gives a frustrated shake of his head.  “Now it’s near constant.  And being here, with you,” Pat’s expression becomes almost sheepish.  “Let’s just say you’re not exactly helping the situation.”

 

“You want me to help?” Jonny asks, voice hushed with wonder.  Pat nods quickly, cock achingly flushed and pressed against his stomach.  Eyes hooded, he’s centered his palms on Jonny’s chest, the thin sheet a scant barrier from the heavy, plush weight of his ass making small, tight, instinctive circles against Jon’s dick.  Pat seems unfocused, lost in the movement, precome dripping thick and tacky onto Jon’s abdomen.

 

It takes everything within Jonny to not just reach out, pull Pat closer by the chain with the damn 88 pendant hanging around his neck, and give him exactly what he needs.

_“Patrick_ , when I thought of us finally...it was never like this.  You’re not thinking clearly,” Jonny pleads.

 

Pat’s eyes snap up to meet Jonny’s, sweat making his eyelashes clump together, a determined edge to his gaze.  “I want this, Jonny.  Why’d you think I came here?  Came to you.”

 

“Pat--”

 

“Don’t fucking chicken out on me now, Toews,” Pat says with a mutinous expression.

 

Jonny barely stops himself from laughing incredulously.  If only Pat knew how easy it would be for him to give in.

 

“Look, obviously giving yourself handies isn’t doing the job.  I don’t see how me lending a hand, so to speak, is going to be any different,” Jon reasons.

 

“No, _ah_ ,” Pat gasps on a particularly tight grind that has Jon’s hips shifting involuntarily upwards, the head of his cock catching briefly along the sweet pressure of Patrick’s rim.  “Don’t need your hand, Jon.  Feel empty, need something inside.”  

 

“ _Jesus_ Pat, I don’t...you need a toy? Or--”

 

Pat snorts and looks at him as if he’s the one half out his mind.  “Jonny, why would I need a toy when there’s a perfectly good dick right under me?”

 

“Fingers,” Jonny blurts out desperately. “Use your fingers.”

 

Pat slowly stills his hips, cocking his head to the side inquisitively.  “You’ll stay? You’ll watch? Tell me if I’m doing it right?”

 

As if Jonny had any desire to be anywhere else.

 

Jonny sits up, sweeping the barest brush of a kiss across Patrick’s fever-bitten lips, before maneuvering him to lay back on the pillows stacked against the headboard.

 

“Not going anywhere,” Jon promises, reaching across for the lube kept in his nightstand.

 

He squeezes some out into his palm before pressing the bottle into Pat’s hands and settling back at the foot of the bed.

 

Pat seems hesitant at first, unsure of how to position his legs, how much lube to coat his fingers with.  But any lingering uncertainty disappears once Jon smoothes the lube, slick and wet, over the length of his own cock, starting a languid rhythm, a hypnotic pull, twist, stroke that catches Pat’s attention.

 

“C’mon Pat,” Jon coaxes, voice deep, gaze unwavering.  “Wanted me to watch, right?  Show me.”

 

_There it is_.  Jonny watches as the challenge hits home, the cool blue flame sparking in Patrick’s eyes.  It’s no different from when they’re on the ice.  Patrick rising to the occasion at the times he’s particularly underestimated, fueled by the heckles of an away crowd chasing his heels.  

 

Only now, they aren’t on the ice.  They’re on Jon’s bed.  On Jon’s sheets.  And whatever show Patrick puts on is for Jon’s eyes only.

 

Pat leans back, drawing his knees up slowly, the shadow between his cheeks coming into view.

 

“Hold yourself open for me,” Jon croaks out.

 

“Don’t rush me,” Pat retorts, but obliges by splaying his legs wider, a pleased curve shaping his lips at the stutter to Jon’s steady movements.

 

Pat is pink and soft and Jon’s favorite wet dream come to life.  

 

Jonny drowns in it.  In the deliberate circle of Pat’s index finger around his rim.  

 

In the pulsing clench of each entry.  

 

In the tight, tight cling of every withdrawal.  

 

In the curved angle of Pat’s wrist as he hits his prostate _just right_.

 

“Jon!” Pat gasps out.

 

Jonny feels as if he’s only just surfacing for air. “Is it working?  Is that what you needed?”

 

Either the bed’s shrunk while Jonny’s been otherwise occupied, or Pat’s much faster than he’s given credit for, because the space between them disappears.

 

Pat’s leaning over him, forehead pressed tightly to Jon’s own.

 

“Jonny,” Pat implores, wetting and rewetting his lips with anxious passes of his tongue.  “I told you what I wanted.  I’ll remember this, saying yes.  I won’t regret it...will you?”

 

Jonny should have known from the beginning.  He’s an idiot for ever thinking he could deny Patrick, especially not when it was something he’s spent years yearning for as well.

 

“Okay Patrick, okay.  I’ve got you,” Jonny breathes, smoothing a gentle hand down the rigid arch of Pat’s spine, drawing him close.  Wrapped together from top to bottom, Jonny can feel the slight tremors coursing through Pat’s frame, an echo of the thrum vibrating through his own veins.  

 

Patrick lets a relieved moan pass from his lips, body pliant as Jon flips them over to press him into the sheets.  Jonny sucks a biting kiss into the curve of his neck, feeling the pressure of Pat’s heels cinching tight at the small of his back, an insistent push guiding him inexorably closer.

 

“C’mon Jonny,” Pat rasps, voice guttural as he kneads his fingers into the red hot flush along the back of Jon’s neck.  Jon releases the skin between his teeth, mouth leaving a spit-slick trail along the length of Pat’s throat as he drags him upwards.   

 

Patrick’s lips are chapped and swollen as he breathes against Jon’s.  “I was imagining it was you, you inside me, when I was--”

 

Jon groans, desperate as he slides home, the kiss with which he seizes Patrick’s mouth a carbon copy of the relentless rhythm below.

 

Patrick keens and Jonny only draws his mouth away to settle near the shell of his ear, beginning a soft litany of praise in counterpoint to the deliberate snap of his hips.  Of how beautiful Patrick is.  Of how tight he feels.  Of how much Jonny wants to mess him up, just so he can start all over again.

 

Pat turns his head swiftly at that, lips brushing against the bridge of Jon’s nose.  

 

“You can,” he whispers, eyes earnest and clear.

 

“Good,” Jonny answers, a bruising kiss sealing the promise.

 

**Day 1**

 

Jon wakes up to the warmth of Patrick nestled into his side, the callused edge of his fingertips dancing across his chest, mapping out a hockey play Jonny blearily recognizes as the OT winner from the 2013 conference finals.  Patrick seems content, the fever-hot flush fading from his skin and the restlessness replaced by the languid sprawl of his limbs.  Pat shuffles closer, deciding to incorporate a spin-o-rama around Jonny’s left nipple, when a stray curl brushes underneath Jon’s nose.

 

Jonny sneezes.

 

There’s a three second pause where neither of them say anything.

 

Jonny watches as Pat looks up, eyes taking on a wickedly determined gleam as he shifts his weight, swinging a leg over to straddle Jon’s thighs.

 

“Must be contagious,” Pat murmurs, ghosting his lips up the long column of Jonny’s throat.  “Good thing I know how to make it better.”

 

_Fuck_ .  Jon’s hands clamp tight around Pat’s hips, thoughts racing with all the things they didn’t get around to doing.  All the things they could do _again_.  Jon’s gulp isn’t audible, but he can tell that Pat felt it by the muffled snicker pressed against his skin.

 

Jon slides his hands lower with intent, Pat’s laughter morphing into a bitten off gasp as Jonny thumbs across the soft clenching give of his hole, still wet with Jonny’s release.  

 

_Fuck_.  Jonny begins to sit up, mind occupied with getting himself situated where he can see exactly what Pat’s hole looks like, marked with the evidence that Jon had been there.  His movements are brought to a firm halt by Pat’s palms splayed across his chest, pushing him back down against the bed with a solid thump.

 

“Nope,” Pat says, neatly capturing Jonny’s wrists and placing them back on top of the rumpled duvet.

 

“Told you I’d remember, Jonny.  You just stay.  Watch.  I’ll tell you if you’re doing it right.”

 

_Fucking hell._

**Author's Note:**

> You've passed GO, collect $200 ;)
> 
> Come say hello at my [tumblr](http://gin-gin-jen.tumblr.com/)


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